27. Mephistopheles
Mephistopheles
Hardened snow sliced into Tennyson’s forearm as he crashed to the ground with Hartmann, but he rolled and lunged to his feet before the other man could recover. He couldn’t see or hear anything over the raging wind and the blood rushing through his ears.
Lindsey was down. Louna was hurt.
His worst fears were coming true.
A fist connected with his jaw, and his head snapped back. Rain poured into his face, so he gave up trying to see—he closed his eyes and struck in the place where it made the most sense for Hartmann to be, and felt his knuckles hit ribs.
“Lindsey,” Louna said, her voice cutting through his earbud.
Lindsey drew a shuddering breath. “I’m all right. First shot hit my shoulder, the second missed. Where are you?”
“Here,” Louna said. “Tennyson?”
Hartmann came close, grappling, but Tennyson shoved him away. “Get to the van,” he said sharply. “I’m—”
The force of Hartmann’s next hit cut off his words, and Tennyson fell back to reset.
He had to focus. Hartmann was a dangerous opponent under normal circumstances, but now—in the dark, in the storm—a single mistake could be fatal.
He had glimpsed Hartmann’s empty hands in the last lightning strike, so he must have dropped the gun when Tennyson knocked him down.
At least he didn’t have that to worry about.
“You’ve realized it, haven’t you?” Hartmann said, spitting rain and blood as he spoke. He’d moved from the last place Tennyson had seen him, and he turned slightly to pinpoint his new location. “One of us dies here tonight.”
Tennyson didn’t answer. In this storm, to be silent was to be invisible.
“Any messages you want me to pass on to Harlow?” Hartmann went on. “Anything you want him to send on to your family? You know they’ll be next, right? Well, not quite next. I’ll finish off your friends here first.”
Fury spiked through him, but he kept his mouth shut. “We’re at the maintenance trail,” Jean-Claude said over the comm, his voice heavy with worry. “And we can hear sirens on the main road. Someone must have called about the gas leak. We can come up to—”
“No,” Louna said. “We’ll come to you. Get the van ready for Lindsey. There’s a first aid kit in the back. Clear a space for him to lie down.”
“It’ll be the American first,” Hartmann said, speaking in a low voice.
He waited for Tennyson to answer, or for lightning to give away his position, but Tennyson took a careful step to work his way around behind him.
“I put a bullet in his chest already, and I’m going to stand there and watch him bleed out while he curses your name. ”
“I already said it was a shoulder shot,” Lindsey called, loud enough to be heard over the storm. “What, your memory’s as bad as your aim? I was three feet in front of you, and you couldn’t land center mass.”
The taunt was as much a distraction as a reassurance for Tennyson, and he accepted them both as he dove toward the last place Hartmann had spoken.
He hit him in the shoulder, a vicious punch just below the place Louna had stabbed.
Hartmann let out a roar of pain and rage, swinging wildly at the air, but Tennyson was already out of reach.
“Then I’ll shoot you again,” he snarled. “And then I’ll find your little girlfriend and—”
Tennyson threw another hook, ducking inside Hartmann’s reach and withdrawing again.
Hartmann spat, his breathing ragged. “I’m not even going to kill her. I’ll bring her back to Harlow, and you know what he’ll do to her.”
“Funny,” Louna said in a dull voice. “Because the next time I see Harlow, he’ll be at the end of my gun.”
A flash of lightning forced Tennyson to abandon the attack he’d been preparing, and Hartmann lunged toward him.
His hand raked across Tennyson’s throat, ripping the cravat free as Tennyson pulled back.
“And your sister,” Hartmann hissed, and terror spiked through Tennyson’s chest. “We know Fox called her from holding. We know she’s coming.
Guess who’s going to be there to meet her at the airport, Stone. ”
Tennyson charged him. The snow crunched beneath them as they fell, the jagged crust of ice catching at his clothes.
He hit Hartmann across the face, but Hartmann blocked the second punch and brought his knee up into Tennyson’s stomach.
They rolled, wrestling for dominance, but Hartmann was heavier.
He got a hand on Tennyson’s face and shoved, grinding his cheek into the frozen earth, and leaned his forearm across Tennyson’s throat.
Lightning lit the sky, and the pressure let up. A glint of metal caught in Tennyson’s peripheral, and Hartmann leaned back, reaching for it. The gun. Tennyson heaved, throwing them both aside, but Hartmann rolled again, and—
Nothing. The ground was gone, and Hartmann’s hands ripped loose as the cold, wet earth turned sideways, and they fell.